She stands alone center stage,

not a single soul in the audience,

yet she plays as though for Carnegie Hall.

Swift, sure movements coax

sweet mellifluous notes from the glossy violin.

Vivaldi fills the air, transporting

this plain teenage girl into a realm

where only nebulous concepts exist.

Her long, dark hair cascades down her back and

over her shoulder, tickling the exposed part of her arm.

Yet she is unaware of this world now,

seeking only to surrender herself to her music.

In front of her and stage left,

sits a wooden sign, rather unobtrusively,

with lovely, flowing, silver script, so elegant,

which reads,

‘Dreams For Sale.’

 *  *  *  *  *   *  *  *  *  * 

He lay twitching, barely breathing,

half-drunk and half-asleep.

He can’t even bring himself to care

where this train is bound,

just so long as he remains

hidden from the railway employees.

He is now curled tightly in on himself,

oblivious to the stench and tears.

He removes his tattered jacket

to serve as a makeshift pillow,

then rubs his numb hands together,

blowing his foul breath over them for warmth.

Maybe in the next town

his luck will improve.

He finds himself dangerously hoping

as he slowly chews the last of his stale biscuit.

In the dark car, he throws out his arm,

reassuring himself the sign still remains.

It is faded and dingy,

bearing unsteady letters

that are still clear enough for now.

Still here!  He settles into fitful sleep

as they rocket through the night,

this broken man and his treasured sign,

which bears the empty promise,

‘Dreams For Sale.’

*  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *

A bright day, full of the promise of spring,

the gardens and trees bursting to life.

Standing in front of her home-made stand

is a little girl full of just as much promise.

Her youthful exuberance is enhanced

by the pink-checked jumper and playful grin she wears.

She smiles brightly, her front tooth missing,

as the sunlight plays on her golden braids.

She just knows today will be special.

Gently turning down offers of help

from her parents, she worked diligently

on this project alone, a Big Girl.

She will meet her goal.

The large wooden sign is propped

in front of her little corner stand.

The multi-colored letters are uneven,

but her message is crystal clear.

She stands back, hands on her hips,

to appraise it one last time before starting.

She grins to herself as she reads again,

‘Dreams For Sale.’

*  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *

Slumped dejectedly in the alley,

leaning against the brick wall for support,

she hunts for the last partial bottle she has left.

That can’t be right.  Must be more here somewhere.

The empty bottles of Johnny and Jim

clink together as she shoves them around

in her fruitless search.

Had she a mirror, she may have noticed

the rabid look in her eyes,

bracketed by smudged mascara.

She might have observed the greasy stains

that now mar her niece’s borrowed blouse,

or even that she was down to only one shoe now.

Her curly hair lay limp and tangled

and retained the stench of last night’s sins.

She knows the alley would stop spinning

if she could just get a few more bucks.

She racks her whiskey-soaked mind

trying to come up with a plan

to finance her self-medicating.

She realizes suddenly and with despair

what it is she must do.

She scours the nearby dumpsters

and retrieves a wooden board with burnt edges. 

With her remaining blue eyeliner

she writes out her thin, shaky message,

her last chance.

‘Dreams For Sale.’   

  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  * 

Standing proud on the courthouse steps,

his charcoal power suit can’t be missed.

Crisp white shirt, bold striped tie, $200 haircut-

all conspire to project confidence, superiority.

Upon closer inspection, one might observe

the bloodlust in his fevered eyes.

One may come to realize there is

malevolence coating that smile.

To those who are close enough to notice,

he reeks of raw fortune and ash.   

Those who choose to note,

allow him a wide berth

on the marble steps that lead to justice.

Stiffly he stands, intent on his vile purpose.

In one hand he grips a briefcase,

buttery leather, screaming of class.

In the other he is clenching a wooden sign

so tightly his knuckles are white.

The letters are bold, stark, and strong.

The message solicits intrigue and a primitive fear.

‘Dreams For Sale.’

*  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *

Dancing through the forest, carefree,

she twirls and raises her face to the sun.

A daisy chain rests lightly

on her wavy, dark tresses.

Her full skirt blooms with each spin,

drawing out laughter like bells.

Tiny bare feet carry her

wherever her heart wishes to go.

A dozen bronze bracelets

catch the sun’s rays and

toss them about the trees.

She hums to herself, a memory

of a song from her childhood days.

The birds join in chorus

as the untamed grass sways.

A single Monarch butterfly softly alights,

wondrously returning her gaze.      

She finally retrieves

the remnants of her lunch,

along with her precious

little wooden sign.

She found such joy in its making

and will not leave it behind.

On this antiquated piece of oak,

written in perfect calligraphy,

is her own personal message of hope:

‘Dreams For Sale.’

*  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *

Colorful striped tents stand in rows

behind this commanding presence.

Odors of hay, roasted peanuts, and cotton candy

permeate the air in an unexpectedly pleasant way.

Fleets of performers in clingy sequined suits

run back and forth as they make preparations.

He stands in the forefront, his role unmistakable:

the large black top hat; the loud red coat,

complete with golden buttons;

the full black handlebar mustache;

bright white pants; shiny black boots.

His powerful voice and countenance

compel all eyes to stay riveted on him.

He makes certain he has the audience’s attention

by including a dramatic pause.

Currently he is holding a large

white wooden sign with colorful balloons

in each of the corners.

The sign is blank, there are no words.

Then he delivers a brilliant smile, eyes twinkling,

waves his hand in front of the board,

and suddenly, there!

Amid thundering applause

the words are now revealed to all.

‘Dreams For Sale.’  

*  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *

On a quiet street, in a quiet neighborhood,

sits the most charming little home.

Steep-sloped roof, gingerbread trim,

long wooden porch, thriving flower garden,

complete with a stone birdbath.

The stepping stone walkway

weaves lazily towards the porch,

which is decorated with a

creaky porch swing built for two.

Occupying the swing now

is a woman who is everyone’s idea

of a true ‘grandma,’ sipping lemonade

as she slowly swings back and forth.

Her silver hair is in a neat bun,

her reading glasses on a chain about her neck.

She is wearing the shawl she knitted herself

and pulls it more snugly around her

stooped shoulders as she lets out

the most contented sigh.

In the center of the yard

stands her husband, tall and proud.

He has one hand in his cardigan pocket,

and in the other is a small hammer.

He has just finished posting the sign

in their cherished front lawn,

and steps back to survey his work.

The sign is made of a wooden sheet

attached to a post in the ground.

The lettering is plain and neat.

He turns to lock eyes with his wife

and they smile tenderly at one another.

He joins his beloved on the swing,

holding her hand securely in his,

as the sun retires for the night.

They will patiently await,

by mutual consent,

an interested patron who will find

just what they are looking for

when they come across the sign that reads’

‘Dreams For Sale.’